


Eucharist

by Lurlur



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Blood and Injury, Catholic Guilt, Churches & Cathedrals, Friends to Lovers, M/M, More tags to follow, Priest Aziraphale (Good Omens), Rated E for Eventual Smut, Religion, Religious Conflict, Roman Catholicism, Vampire Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27051799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur
Summary: Father Aziraphale serves a small Catholic community in a largely protestant town. He knows his congregation as well as any attentive shepherd knows his flock. The appearance of a handsome stranger would be enough to draw Aziraphale's attention, but the man behaves so strangely that Aziraphale can't help but wonder about him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 110
Kudos: 204
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to try and finish this before releasing to the world but it just keeps growing and growing. If I don't start publishing it soon, I'll run out of steam!
> 
> Many thanks to Insominia, D20Owlbear, and MovesLikeBucky for the unerring support and late-night brainstorming sessions!
> 
> Please do let me know if there's something you think I should tag for that I haven't.

Father Aziraphale is part way through his homily when the stranger slips into the back of the church. His parish is small and located in a largely Anglican area; any new face in the pews draws his attention. That’s the excuse that Aziraphale starts to repeat at the back of his mind every time his eyes drift over to the strange man sitting alone.

Wrapping up a little quicker than he originally planned, Aziraphale leads the congregation through the credo before stepping down from the pulpit and retrieving the communion wine and wafers for the blessing. Keeping his eyes and hands occupied doesn’t help him avoid thoughts of the man. He tries to focus on preparing the Eucharist, to instil meaning into his words, but there’s something magnetic about the new arrival.

He invites the congregation up to the rail and begins to offer the wafers and blessings, one of the lay chaplains following with the cup of wine. He’s watching the line, smiling gently at the regular faces, and trying not to make it obvious that he’s looking for the man in dark glasses.

Aziraphale is holding out a wafer to Mrs Garretty when he sees the man, sliding out of the pew. There’s a moment, just a fraction of a second, where he’s almost certain that their eyes meet and the man’s mouth twitches into a smile. It’s over before Aziraphale can respond and the man turns away, heading back out of the church. Mrs Garretty makes a polite, if confused, noise, drawing Aziraphale’s attention to the fact that he’s been holding a swiftly dissolving wafer to her tongue for ten seconds without saying anything.

“The body of Christ,” he mumbles, struggling to find his composure.

Later, after closing up the church and returning to his modest home, Aziraphale chides himself for getting so distracted. How could he have made eye contact with someone wearing such dark sunglasses, indoors, in November? His imagination must be running wild with him. This thought makes him cast a guilty glance at his bookshelves where theological and philosophical texts are vastly outnumbered by novels of all genres. Perhaps he has been using reading as a form of escapism for rather too long.

Reluctantly, Aziraphale puts his well-worn copy of _Gun Machine_ back on its shelf and picks up _Searching for and Maintaining Peace_ instead. He decides that if he’s getting this worked up over one man sitting in on five minutes of a service, then perhaps he should spend some time strengthening his relationship with God.

The fact that his life has been so uneventful for so long, the same faces, places, and conversations, has been weighing on him. Even the hint of a change, of something new, is too much of a draw to his restless mind.

That night, Aziraphale dreams of tall strangers with vividly red hair and unknowable eyes; he tries to call out but the man always turns away, silent and mysterious.

* * *

For the next week, Aziraphale finds that he always keeps half an eye on the door of the church, watching for the reappearance of the man. He joins the evening Mass on Tuesday, but slips out during the Eucharist again. He doesn’t attend the Wednesday morning reflective prayer session, nor the Thursday evening service. To Aziraphale’s regret, he doesn’t show up to any of the confession times either. On Sunday, he arrives during the readings and stays until Aziraphale is, once again, passing out blessings and the Eucharist. He doesn’t see the man leave, just noticing the door closing behind him.

It’s puzzling behaviour, Aziraphale thinks, to turn up for short snippets of a Mass only to leave before receiving even a blessing or the peace and dismissal. He can’t understand the motivations behind such behaviour. As a result, he spends rather a lot of his private prayer time asking for guidance on drawing this particular lost sheep into the flock.

A few weeks later and Aziraphale has spotted several patterns and consistencies in the man’s behaviour. He’s always late to the service, he only attends services with a Eucharist, he always wears black although the style appears to vary each time, he never takes off his sunglasses, and he always leaves before the end of the Eucharist.

Aziraphale can’t make head nor tail of it, and any opportunity that he might have to address the man during a service offers an audience of the gossipiest ladies this side of the Irish Sea. Far from ideal.

On this particular Sunday, Aziraphale is giving his homily and the man has been in his pew at the back for most of the service. He’s leaning forward, elbows on the back of the row in front of him and, apparently, paying rapt attention. Even Mrs Doyle doesn’t listen with this level of fervour; Aziraphale feels his cheeks flush under the attention and tries to convince himself that the man’s glasses could be giving a false sense of attentiveness.

They recite the credo in one voice and Aziraphale begins the ritual of preparing the wine and wafers for blessing. He’s also aware that he’s preparing himself for the disappointment of watching the man in black as he leaves again. As much as he’s been telling himself that this is merely the interest of a diligent priest concerned for the immortal souls of his parishioners, he knows it’s something deeper, darker, more personal.

When he looks up from offering the body of Christ to Mr O’Connell, the man is standing in the aisle and staring at Aziraphale over the top of his sunglasses. It’s the first time that he’s seen the man’s eyes and Aziraphale doesn’t know if that’s what makes his breath catch in his throat or the unnatural appearance of them, even at this distance.

The man shifts his weight from one foot to the other, glancing between Aziraphale and the door as if he’s caught in a moment of indecision. He shakes his head and takes a step away, moving towards the door, but chances one last glance at Aziraphale. The intensity of the gaze shocks Aziraphale back into the moment.

“Wait!” he calls out, earning shocked and scandalised looks from the fussier members of the congregation. “Please, don’t go.”

The man stops, the corner of his mouth lifting into a slight smile. He shakes his head in a clear refusal and walks out of the church, leaving Aziraphale feeling oddly bereft. Under the scrutiny of his lay chaplain, Aziraphale manages to force himself back into delivering communion.

Once he’s offered the final blessings and dismissed the congregation, Aziraphale asks his usual volunteers to leave him the work of clearing up, wanting some time alone in the sanctuary of the church, a little space to organise his thoughts before he has to face the rest of the world.

Nothing has happened, there’s nothing for him to be so worked up about, he’s reacting to nothing at all. People come and go from churches all the time, attending for a single service or a couple of weeks before disappearing off without a trace. If he tried, Aziraphale is sure that he could come up with a dozen reasonable explanations for the man’s behaviour.

He doesn’t try. He kneels before the altar and says a silent prayer for clarity before moving around the church to gather up hymn books and snuff out the candles. Once he’s changed out of his vestments, Aziraphale sweeps the floor and folds away the linens and altar cloth. The work helps centre him in a way that any monotonous labour can, he feels solidly in his body as he uses it to serve the church and God.

Finally, feeling much more like himself again, Aziraphale retrieves his coat from the vestry and checks the lock on the safe. He sets the alarm and steps out of the church, pulling the door closed behind him to lock it.

“Hello, Father,” says an unfamiliar voice.

Aziraphale jumps, dropping the keys on his foot, and clutching his hands to his chest.

“Good heavens, you startled me!” he laughs nervously, looking around for the source of the voice.

The man in black steps forward and out of a convenient shadow. Aziraphale’s heart performs a complicated flip that would probably make it a medal contender at the British Gymnastics Championships.

“My apologies,” the man says, he bows his head in a show of sincerity before darting down to snatch up Aziraphale’s keys. “Here.”

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale says, his voice sounding strange in his own head.

The man shrugs and hunches his shoulders up, turning away from Aziraphale. Not knowing what he’s done to earn this reaction, Aziraphale locks the door quickly and pockets the keys to buy himself a little thinking time.

“Were you waiting for me?” Apparently, that’s the smartest thing that Aziraphale can think to say and he hears how hollow it rings. “If I’d known you were out here, I would have invited you in, or worked faster.”

The man shrugs again, but his posture relaxes noticeably.

“It’s no matter,” he says, smiling in a manner that makes Aziraphale think of sharks and snakes and tigers. “I was fine out here.”

“Well, I’m grateful to you for waiting. I’ve wanted the chance to speak with you for some time, now,” Aziraphale admits. “I’m Father Aziraphale, but you needn’t worry about calling me Father or any such thing, just Aziraphale is fine.” He holds out his hand in greeting, hoping that the man will give him this much.

“Crowley,” says the man, eyeing Aziraphale’s hand for a moment before grasping it. “Good to meet you.”

Aziraphale smiles as warmly as he can, trying to disguise the visceral reaction he’s having from touching Crowley’s skin. His hand is so cold that Aziraphale wants to examine him for frostbite. The weather is reasonably mild so, although Crowley has been standing around outside for a while, Aziraphale can see no reason for his hand to be so lifelessly cold. His years of service in the church have done much to improve his poker face- a priest should be prepared to greet everyone as an equal and with an open heart, after all. Still, something of his concern must show on his face because Crowley laughs and pulls his hand away.

“Poor circulation,” he explains, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat.

Aziraphale knows that he can’t conduct this conversation on the steps of the church, the poor man might freeze to death before Aziraphale can get close to the points he wants to discuss! He briefly considers unlocking the church, but whatever is making Crowley leave before the end of services is likely connected to an issue with religion or the Church or God. No, he needs somewhere neutral if Crowley will allow it.

“I find that there’s nothing like a hot drink on a lovely autumn day like this. I was about to take myself over to the tea rooms for a cocoa, would you permit me to buy you a cup of tea, perhaps?” Aziraphale makes his offer as casual and low-pressure as he possibly can. The energy about Crowley puts him in mind of a skittish cat, something a touch feral and just as likely to bolt as to accept a kindness.

Sure enough, Crowley glances over his shoulder before answering, looking as though he might refuse. Aziraphale steels himself for disappointment, trying to remind himself that he’s made great progress today in just speaking to Crowley, learning his name.

“You know what? Yeah, go on then.”

Aziraphale is so close to gracefully accepting Crowley’s refusal that his brain takes a moment to parse that reality has taken a different turn.

“Oh, oh! Lovely, yes,” he’s babbling and smiling like he’s not fully in control of his faculties, “Well, shall we?” Aziraphale stops short of offering his elbow, but it’s a very close thing.

They walk in silence to the tea rooms, inventively named The Tea Rooms, and it’s not the easy kind of silence that Aziraphale usually cherishes. It prickles between them, an expectation of uncomfortable conversation to come. Aziraphale is quite used to people being on edge around him, the collar has that effect on more people than not these days, but Crowley seems more wary than most.

Aziraphale opens the door for him, ushering Crowley ahead as an excuse to try and compose himself before they sit down to have some kind of discussion, a discussion that Aziraphale will likely have to lead. They order at the counter, a cocoa for Aziraphale and black coffee for Crowley, before heading deeper into the seat area to find a table. Aziraphale folds his coat over the chair beside the one he sits in, carefully keeping it away from the little puddle of tea that spreads across their table. Crowley merely sits, hunched in his coat as if he’s colder indoors than he was outside.

The bright lighting makes him look worryingly pale, almost blue around the lips and Aziraphale wants to chide him for standing around in the cold so long when he could have been inside the much warmer church.

A girl in an apron approaches the table to give it an apologetic wipe over with a grey cloth. Aziraphale puts his hands in his lap, reluctant to touch the now wet table, and looks up at Crowley. He’s still wearing the sunglasses and Aziraphale has been around long enough to know better than to ask about them. Either he needs them for some reason that’s none of Aziraphale’s business, or it’s an affectation and drawing attention to it is to play into whatever narrative Crowley has built about them.

Instead, Aziraphale smiles gently and tries to exude a comforting serenity.

“Thank you for joining me,” he begins, carefully framing Crowley’s presence as a welcome choice, “I’ve noticed you in a few services lately and it’s always such a joy to see a new face in the pews.”

Crowley makes a noise that might be a scoff, might be agreement, it’s vague and a little frustrating. A different girl comes to the table with their drinks, putting them down with a tight smile and without looking either of them in the face. It’s only after Aziraphale has pulled his cocoa across the table from where it was left that Crowley moves, taking his hands out of his pockets and wrapping them around the mug.

When Crowley doesn’t speak, Aziraphale readjusts his expectations for the conversation and tries a different tack.

“Do you have much of a history with the Catholic church?”

Crowley laughs then, a slightly bitter sound, and one of his hands rises to his chest in what appears to be an unconscious move. The heel of his palm presses against his sternum and then he catches himself and returns to cradling his coffee.

“You could say that, I suppose,” Crowley says after a moment. He appears amused by the question but unwilling to offer any further information.

“What would _you_ say?” Aziraphale tries.

Crowley scrunches his nose, his top lip rising enough to show straight, white teeth. It’s unfairly adorable, Aziraphale decides, squashing down his more inappropriate emotions.

“I suppose I’d say that the church has played something of a formative role in my life, for better or worse,” Crowley speaks slowly, as if feeling the words one by one before letting them out into the world. “Despite some time away from it, I find that I am drawn close, once again.”

Aziraphale takes a small sip of his drink, buying a little time and offering a silence for Crowley to fill should he feel so inclined. Apparently, he doesn’t.

“How does that make you feel? Being drawn back to the church?” He tries to present the question as innocently as possible, just a casual inquiry from an interested party rather than the invitation to bare his soul that it is.

Crowley’s mouth goes tight and Aziraphale realises that he’s only scratching the surface of how expressive Crowley’s face can be. His sunglasses should cover the most readable parts of his expressions, and yet Aziraphale finds that he can read so much in the little that he can see.

“I’m sorry, that was too personal a question,” Aziraphale says, trying to appease Crowley.

Lifting the cup of coffee to his lips, Crowley takes a deep breath through his nose.

“No, it’s alright,” he says after a moment, “I expected you to be much more blunt, if I’m honest. I thought I was prepared to talk about this.”

Aziraphale puts his hand on the tabletop between them in a gesture of openness and peace.

“You don’t need to tell me anything you don’t want to, and you are always welcome at services whether it’s for a minute or an hour. I just want to make that clear.”

Crowley nods, but he appears to be focused on his mug. His fingers flex around it in frustrated little twitches. Aziraphale lets the silence rest for a while, drinking a long swallow of his cocoa while Crowley gets lost in his thoughts.

“I suppose,” Crowley says at last, “I wanted to see if I could actually go back, if it was allowed. You hear so much about how someone like me wouldn’t be welcome.”

Aziraphale could make several guesses at what it meant to be ‘someone like Crowley’, but it didn’t matter, really. He believes completely, heart and soul, in a loving God, a forgiving God, a God who only wants the best for their creations. Whoever Crowley is, whatever he might have done, Aziraphale is certain that his role is to offer a safe place for him to connect with his faith.

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale says, ignoring Crowley’s snort at the endearment, “you will never be turned away from any church I serve.”

“Thanks,” Crowley says with a small smile. He lifts the mug again, breathing the scent of his drink but not appearing to take even a sip.

Aziraphale’s mug is almost empty and he knows he should be getting home soon. He doesn’t have a great deal of time before he’s due at the nursing home for dinner with the residents.

“Is there something wrong with your coffee?” he asks after Crowley’s third sniff of the full mug.

Crowley looks sheepish, like he’s been caught misbehaving.

“Uh, no, I mean, I don’t think so,” Crowley says, laughing nervously. “I- well, the thing is, I really like coffee but I can’t drink it. Doctor’s orders. So, I just like to smell it sometimes, feel the warmth. It’s stupid.”

Aziraphale is speechless. In the realm of things he hoped to learn about Crowley, this is both entirely unexpected and decidedly adorable. A tiny ember flares in his chest, a spark that catches the dry kindling of his heart. It feels like forever before he’s able to react properly, smiling at Crowley and patting one of his hands.

“Not stupid at all,” he says, “I think that’s perfectly charming.”

Crowley grumbles under his breath but there’s something pleased looking about his mouth and cheeks. Aziraphale gets the impression that Crowley is blushing, despite there being no colour change to his face or neck.

“Well, I don’t want to rush you if you’re still enjoying the experience,” Aziraphale says, reluctant to bring their chat to an end but bound by other commitments.

“Ah, no, it’s getting cold now so I’m done.” Crowley slips his hands off the table and back into his pockets.

“This has been delightful, it’s been a pleasure meeting you, Crowley.” Aziraphale stands, retrieving his coat and shrugging it on. “I do hope I’ll see you in the week, or next Sunday?”

Crowley smiles his toothy grin again, infecting Aziraphale with its carefree feeling.

“You can count on it, priest.”

* * *

Sure enough, Crowley sneaks into his preferred pew at the back during the first few minutes of Tuesday’s service. Aziraphale is so pleased to see him that he almost messes up the prayers. He recovers, but there’s a subtle smirk on Crowley’s face that suggests he knows exactly what caused Aziraphale to slip. Again, Crowley leaves during the Eucharist. He isn’t waiting outside when Aziraphale locks up.

On Sunday, Crowley is in his seat by the time the procession starts. Aziraphale isn’t intending to look for him when he walks down the aisle. He just catches sight of the familiar red and black, and is staring straight at Crowley before he realises that he’s turned his head. Again, Crowley grins and Aziraphale can’t help but return it.

Now that he’s been caught staring twice, Aziraphale gives up on trying to prevent his attention from wandering to Crowley during the course of the service. It gives him the opportunity to observe behaviours he hasn’t noticed before.

Crowley doesn’t stand or kneel when the rest of the congregation do, but he does bow his head so he isn’t being disrespectful. He at least appears to mouth his way through the prayers and hymns, although he skips some of the words. The word “blessing” makes him visibly flinch and glance around.

Aziraphale really does try not to judge, but he can’t help making some rather unhappy assumptions about Crowley’s past interactions with people proclaiming to be on holy orders. Something has wounded him, left marks on his heart that makes it difficult for him to submit to the higher power. It’s not surprising that he doesn’t stay to the end of Mass, the traditional dismissal blessing must be overwhelming for him.

Aziraphale’s still mulling these thoughts over when he turns off the lights and slips out the door. Crowley’s presence is an entirely unexpected delight.

“Hello, Crowley!” Aziraphale says, unable to keep the pleasure from his voice. “Did you need me for something?”

Crowley looks down at his feet, scuffing his toe in the gravel.

“I thought perhaps I could return the favour this week, take you for a cocoa?”

Aziraphale beams.

“Oh, that would be lovely, yes please,” he accepts without a second thought.

Crowley looks so relieved and pleased that Aziraphale has to wonder what sort of monsters have been refusing his invitations, if cocoa with a stuffy priest seems like a treat.

They sit in the same seats as they had the week before, Aziraphale again shedding his coat and folding it on the seat beside him, Crowley remaining hunched in his until his coffee arrives.

They talk a little more freely, more comfortably. Aziraphale offers up personal anecdotes and details to help Crowley feel like he isn’t being interrogated, just small things about his life and background that might encourage Crowley to reciprocate. This approach appears to work in that Crowley speaks more freely, however, what he says is often nonsensical or ridiculous.

He’s mocking Aziraphale for his outdated language in one breath then referring to ha’pennies and motorcars in the next. Either Aziraphale is being made fun of in a very specific and cruel way, or Crowley is a darn sight more eccentric than Aziraphale had realised.

Whatever the truth, Aziraphale makes an effort not to talk about the church or religion during their chat, deciding that Crowley is unlikely to want pestering about the topic. It seems far better to show him that Aziraphale has depth as a person rather than badgering him about something he’s clearly still coming to terms with himself. They settle nicely into the topic of cars, Crowley brimming with enthusiasm for “the genius of the combustion engine”.

“I’ve got a classic Bentley, 1933 model, pristine condition,” Crowley says proudly, sitting straighter as he talks about his car. “One owner from new, that’s the trick.”

After receiving a few gentle jibes from Crowley, Aziraphale feels confident enough to reciprocate, recognising the sort of affection that Crowley hides within his teasing words.

“One owner? Oh my, you’re looking good for your age,” Aziraphale smirks. He lifts his mug to hide his satisfaction, despite his cocoa having been finished some time ago.

Crowley freezes, startled, before relaxing into a laugh that’s just a shade too loud for the setting.

“Oh, you have no idea,” he says at last, pushing his sunglasses back up his nose. Aziraphale watches him, wrong-footed by the reaction but not discouraged.

All too soon, it’s time for Aziraphale to move on to his next obligation again. Crowley’s hand is still warm from cradling his undrunk coffee when Aziraphale clasps it and thanks him for the company. He’s gripped by either bravery or foolishness just before they part ways.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to do this next week as well?” Aziraphale asks, aiming for casual and at least avoiding needy.

Crowley grins over his scarf, pushing it down with his chin so Aziraphale can see his delight.

“Oh, absolutely,” he says, “try to stop me.”

They separate on the pavement and Aziraphale walks away wondering why he keeps thinking about vipers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A friendship blossoms, a confession is arranged, and a rash decision made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Blood, injury, mentions of death, paedophilia and harm to animals.
> 
> My very great thanks to Rel for coming up with the funny bits!

Coffee with Crowley quickly becomes part of Aziraphale’s Sunday routine. In between the end of Sunday Mass and dinner at the care home, Aziraphale carves out a little window of time where he doesn’t have to be _Father_ Aziraphale, priest and moral guardian of his flock. He can simply relax in Crowley’s company, joking and chatting about whatever fancy strikes them. Crowley doesn’t appear to judge when Aziraphale shares some of his less upstanding thoughts, and, in turn, Crowley doesn’t shy away from telling Aziraphale things that might rub against his more priestly sensibilities. So many people see his collar and immediately start to censor themselves, picking their words and altering anecdotes so as not to offend him. Aziraphale understands the impulse that drives the behaviour, he just doesn’t understand what people think will happen if they tell him a bawdy joke or admit to some less-than-virtuous behaviour. He’s hardly going to manifest a confessional booth out of thin air or beat them with his rosary.

For a while, he’d wondered if Crowley was toying with him, trying to incite him to blaspheme or slip up somehow. Now, he’s simply sure that Crowley likes having a friend and doesn’t consider Aziraphale to be someone he should watch himself around. It’s rather refreshing.

As for Crowley himself, Aziraphale has been able to discern very little about him. He offers almost no information about what he gets up to in the days between their meetings, only occasionally letting slip about places he’s been. Aziraphale has gathered that Crowley is well-travelled, older than most people think, and prone to medical issues.

On that last point, Aziraphale is certain that Crowley is under-playing the severity of his illness. In the few weeks that they have been meeting, he’s become even more pale and frail-looking. His skin seems almost translucent, as thin as tissue paper where it stretches over his knuckles. Aziraphale wants to ask, wants to know how he can help, but he refuses to pry. Crowley will tell him when he’s ready, he tries to convince himself: Crowley will tell him and not simply disappear from his life.

It’s early in the new year when Crowley pulls the rug out from under Aziraphale’s feet.

He’s barely recovered from the extra workload of Advent and the Christmas period, worn down by too many late nights at the care home delivering the sacrament of the sick, and needing the bright oasis of his stolen hour with Crowley.

His hands are barely wrapped around the coffee they both know he won’t drink before he’s pulling them away to gesticulate his way through a point. Aziraphale watches his movements, the grace of them, captivated as always.

“Anyway,” Crowley says, suddenly changing tone, “how does confession work these days?”

Just like that, his hands are back around his mug, his gaze seems to be fixed on Aziraphale, and the elephant in the room has taken a seat at their table.

“What?” Aziraphale says stupidly. “Sorry, I mean, what would you like to know?”

Crowley leans back, his mouth twisting as he works out what to say.

“I-uh, I just mean, how does it work? When do you do it?” He stumbles over a few consonant heavy syllables for a moment. “Is it all done in those little cupboards? Do you have to have an appointment? That sort of thing.”

Aziraphale smiles his warmest and most reassuring smile. He feels as though the world has dropped out from underneath him but he’s falling like Alice down the rabbit hole. It’s a sort of confused uncertainty that he can deal with and far from the words he feared Crowley might say.

“Well, that very much depends on the needs of the confessor,” Aziraphale begins, comfortable in his profession, “I can hear confession at any time, if there’s a need. The church does have a traditional confessional, but most people now prefer to sit with me in the office. I keep certain times free every week for people to drop in, and sometimes people will call to ask if they can come in to speak with me. Does that answer your question?”

Crowley drops his head, giving the appearance of being deep in thought. He lifts his coffee for a deep breath before speaking again.

“Would you be willing to hear my confession?” he says in a quiet voice.

It’s so unlike what Aziraphale knows of Crowley, this timidity and uncertainty.

“Of course, Crowley, whenever you like. Do you feel as though you would like to confess?”

Crowley laughs bitterly.

“Oh, Father, you have no idea.”

“But you’d like me to know, wouldn’t you? You’d like to shift this burden you’re carrying.” Aziraphale feels suddenly sure of himself in this conversation, no longer afraid of scaring Crowley off with talk of faith.

Crowley doesn’t look up from his mug.

“Yes, I think I would.”

Aziraphale pulls a diary from the pocket of his coat and they agree to an appointment for Crowley’s confession on Wednesday evening.

* * *

Aziraphale spends the intervening days filled with a sort of nervous anticipation he hasn’t felt since childhood. Getting to know Crowley has been like trying to solve a wonderfully twisting puzzle. Pieces fit together enough for Aziraphale to get a feel for what the picture might be, but there are enough gaps and missing parts to suggest that he could have completely the wrong idea. Confession, although a holy duty Aziraphale takes very seriously, is also an opportunity to get a glimpse at the deeper workings of Crowley. Wednesday can’t come fast enough.

Crowley is punctual, arriving at the exact time they had agreed and finding Aziraphale in the church office. He drops into the chair he’s offered with less grace than Aziraphale has come to expect from him and begins to fiddle with everything within reach. After watching Crowley drop a pen and then a paperweight, Aziraphale realises that Crowley is drunk.

The poor man must be so nervous about confessing that he’s needed to employ a bit of Dutch courage.

“Now, Crowley, this can be as formal or informal as you like. It doesn’t need to be anything more than a conversation between friends, if that’s how you’d like it to go.” Aziraphale stands as he speaks and moves to the chair beside Crowley rather than keeping the desk between them.

“Right, yeah,” Crowley says, fiddling now with the spiral cord of the desk phone. “Do I have t’do the whole ‘forgive me, Father’ stuff?”

“Not if you don’t want to,” Aziraphale says. He takes off his reading glasses and leans back in his chair, hoping that Crowley will begin to mirror the more relaxed posture and move past the nervous energy he’s exhibiting.

“Great, OK, so I just, what? Tell you all the bad things I’ve done?” He looks up then, his eyes almost visible behind the sunglasses. Aziraphale is struck by the impression that Crowley is just lost.

“You can tell me anything that you’ve done, thoughts you’ve had, impulses you’ve felt, anything that you want to repent for,” Aziraphale speaks carefully in a low tone. “What do you feel you need forgiveness for, Crowley?”

Swallowing audibly, Crowley turns away again, looking straight ahead.

“I’ve done things, Aziraphale. _Bad_ things.”

His use of Aziraphale’s name is unusual enough to make the priest pause, but he moves past it a moment later.

“God’s love and forgiveness is offered to all who seek it honestly.”

Crowley barks out a single laugh before leaning forward, his elbows digging into his thighs and his hands covering his face. His fingers sneak up under his sunglasses to press over his eyelids. Aziraphale just watches him, waiting for Crowley to be ready for more.

“I’m not so worried about God,” he says quietly. “What about your forgiveness, Aziraphale?”

The question is so unexpected that Aziraphale gapes for a few seconds. He tries to gather his thoughts into something appropriate.

“If God can love and forgive all sinners, who am I to cast judgement?” He really tries to sound like he believes it, too.

Crowley doesn’t move, doesn’t give any outward sign of having heard Aziraphale for almost a minute.

“I’ve killed people. Quite a few people, if I’m honest. It makes me sick to think of it, I can’t go on like this.”

It’s not what Aziraphale expected him to say, but it’s not the worst thing he could have heard either. There are a lot of ways to interpret a confession like this and Aziraphale runs through them quickly in the privacy of his own mind.

“A lot of people struggle with feelings like this, Crowley, it’s not uncommon to feel like the consequences of actions or decisions we’re forced to make are impacting people in difficult ways. That doesn’t make you respons-”

Crowley jumps up from his seat and begins to pace, running his hands through his hair as he walks laps of the room.

“No, I’m not being figurative or metaphorical here! I’m not some banker who made a family homeless or a doctor who missed a symptom! I have ended people’s lives with my bare hands, and not always because I needed to. Fuck, I don’t think I’ve ever _needed_ to, not really, but sometimes I’d do it just because I could. I knew it was wrong but, back then, I couldn’t bring myself to care.”

He stops by the door, leaning against it and sliding to the floor where he hugs his knees and hides his face. The remorse and regret pouring off him is so obvious that Aziraphale briefly imagines that he can taste it.

Back in the seminary, he and his fellow students had discussed what they would do if someone confessed to murder or some other violent crime. He had envisioned himself making a moral decision and acting on behalf of the greater good, breaking the seal of confession and accepting excommunication if it meant he could save a life. He had never imagined that he would end up sitting cross-legged on the floor with a self-confessed killer, offering him a box of tissues.

“Do you want to tell me about it, Crowley?” he asks as Crowley takes the tissue box and blots at his eyes.

“I haven’t done it in a while,” Crowley says, curling up tighter, “not since 1981. And by then I was only targeting the killers and paedophiles. No offence.”

“Not all priests- You know, that doesn’t matter.” Aziraphale shakes himself to get back on track. “1981, Crowley? Forgive me, but you don’t look old enough to have even been born then, let alone killing people.”

Crowley laughs again, muffled against his legs.

“I’m a lot older than I look, remember?” he says simply. Aziraphale decides that it’s not worth the headache to untangle that particular knot.

“I’m sorry, do go on.”

Crowley sniffs loudly and rubs his face against his knees, looking younger than ever. His skin is so pale, even in the warmth of the office.

“I need you to believe me, I’m not lying to you,” he’s almost pleading and it’s such a shock to have the usually cool and collected man appear vulnerable and upset like this.

“Of course, Crowley, I believe you.” It’s not a complete lie. Either way, Crowley continues.

“I started being more selective after killing a bunch of Nazis in 1940- no, 1941. I realised that I didn’t feel so bad when I was hurting bad people. I could get what I needed and make the world a better place. At least, that’s what I started telling myself. Before that, I preyed upon the sick because it was easy. If someone was already close to death, I thought it didn’t matter if I helped it along a bit. 1918 was like a free-for-all, with the war wounded and the Spanish flu, but even before then I had ended so many lives. I think I’ll hold those memories forever... I probably deserve it. There are too many for me to tell you all now, we’d be here for hours, but my biggest regret is my first kill. I murdered my lover, the first person to think that I was worth anything, and I killed him. I didn’t even realise what I was doing until it was too late. All I knew was hunger and pain and need, it was ferocious, and I _had_ to sate it. The next thing I knew, I was holding Jonathan’s body and covered in his blood. It was a mess. That was 1873, the 13th of July. I’ll never forget it.”

When Crowley finishes, Aziraphale is at a complete loss. Part of him wants to laugh at the absurdity. With his eyes always covered, it is difficult to guess Crowley’s age but the smooth firmness of the skin on his neck and hands leads Aziraphale to put him in his early 30s. He wonders, briefly, if Crowley has undergone some kind of past life regression treatment and now believes that he was a killer in a past life. Multiple past lives, perhaps.

Whatever the truth, Crowley’s remorse is real enough. He gives the impression of someone who has been holding in a great deal of guilt and now has opened a floodgate.

“What can I do to help you now, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, shifting his legs as they start to get numb.

“You think I’m mad or lying, don’t you?”

“No, not at all. You’re clearly distressed by this confession, it would be cruel of me to dismiss that.” Aziraphale tries to tread carefully, finding the line between blunt truth and anything deliberately misleading.

“I was born in 1832, Aziraphale, I died in 1873 at the age of 41,” he pauses, pulling off his sunglasses and wiping a tissue over his closed eyes. “Then I came back... or I didn’t fully die, or something- I don’t know and no one has ever explained it to me.” Crowley takes a deep breath and looks up at Aziraphale, letting him see his eyes for the first time. His irises are a violent red. “I’m a vampire, Aziraphale.”

As first reactions go, Aziraphale thinks he doesn’t do too badly. He chokes on a laugh, just managing to slam his hand over his mouth to keep it from escaping. Crowley looks so sincere and concerned, Aziraphale just doesn’t have it in him to be cruel.

“A vampire?” he manages to say at last, his voice surprisingly level, “That’s quite a claim.”

Crowley stares at him, looking like he’s concentrating intensely, before collapsing back against the door.

“Right, holy ground,” he grumbles cryptically, getting to his feet. “Come on, Father, let me show you something.”

Aziraphale hesitates; he’s not afraid, exactly, but a bit of caution when following a man who just claimed to be an almost 200 year old vampire seems justified. The hesitancy seems to please Crowley and he smiles as he offers Aziraphale a hand in getting up from the floor.

“Come on, I won’t bite.” He snickers at his own joke, showing the spirit of the man that Aziraphale has been getting to know.

He reaches up to clasp Crowley’s hand only to yelp and pull his hand back a split second later.

“Your hand is _freezing_!” Aziraphale hisses, shaking out his fingers.

“Yes,” Crowley says flatly, “I’m dead.”

Feeling as though he’s offended Crowley, Aziraphale braces himself and takes his hand once more. He’s struck by the realisation that he and Crowley have touched just the once before, that in all their weeks of chatting over coffee, they’ve never so much as brushed knuckles in passing.

Grabbing his coat before following Crowley out of the church, Aziraphale jams his hands into his pockets and hunches his shoulders against the cold. Crowley stops every few paces, muttering to himself before walking on. Eventually, they reach the gate of the churchyard and step out onto the pavement.

“Consecrating the whole bloody churchyard seems a bit excessive,” Crowley grumbles, shaking out his arms. “Ready?”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale answers, shrugging, “although I don’t know what I’m ready for.”

He’s barely finished his sentence when Crowley explodes into a swarm of bats.

One moment, Crowley is standing in front of him, swaying slightly and smiling in a way that’s clearly trying to cover his anxiety, and the next he’s gone and there are dozens of bats flitting about the place.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Aziraphale pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to make sense of what he’s just seen.

“That’s blasphemy, Aziraphale.”

He opens his eyes to see Crowley standing right where he’d been just before the bat thing had happened.

“I think I can be forgiven this once,” Aziraphale says, a little sharper than he’d intended.

“Let’s get you back inside,” Crowley says, stepping closer to Aziraphale. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Aziraphale laughs bitterly, too numb or stupid to resist Crowley’s assistance. Part of his brain tries to make the logical argument that if Crowley had wanted to harm him, he could have done so at a thousand points during their friendship so far. But Aziraphale has just seen a grown man turn into a swarm of bats, so logic is on pretty thin ice.

They make it back inside to Aziraphale’s office, Crowley keeping his arm around Aziraphale’s waist until he’s back in one of the comfortable chairs. Turning away, Crowley fishes his sunglasses out of his pocket and slides them back on. Despite everything, Aziraphale recognises the nervousness and fear that is running through Crowley. He’s still drunk, weaving as he wanders the room, examining the trinkets on the shelves, touching things at random, looking everywhere but at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale makes several quick decisions. He decides that he is in no danger from Crowley. He decides that he believes him completely. He decides that he will hear out his confession and whatever else Crowley has to say, offering what absolution he can. And he decides that he needs a drink.

“I need to be less sober for this conversation,” he announces, pushing himself to his feet and opening the cupboard where the communion wine is stored.

“No, Aziraphale!” Crowley cries, horrified, “Not the baptismal wine! That’s for the babies.”

Aziraphale unscrews the cap and takes a long swallow before fixing Crowley with a serious look.

“What do you think happens at a baptism, Crowley?” he asks.

Crowley’s mouth opens and closes a few times as he tries to form an answer. Aziraphale can’t help smiling at him.

“You dunk the baby in the wine and then Jesus turns it into water- wait, no, that’s the other way around,” Crowley says at last, waving his hands in a way that bears no relation to his words. “You get the babies a bit drunk so you can cut off their foreskins?”

“What?!” Aziraphale almost spits wine across the room- it’s a very close thing.

“Well, I know I’d want to be a bit drunk if someone was going to cut off my foreskin.” Crowley sounds thoughtful and more than a little defensive.

“We’re rather getting off topic here,” Aziraphale says before taking another swig of wine. He’s feeling quite ridiculous.

“Right, right.” Crowley shakes himself.

They are both standing, leaning against cabinets across the room from each other, and Aziraphale has the distinct impression that Crowley is waiting for him to move. He pushes off and closes the distance between them enough that he can reach out to offer the bottle of wine.

“Here, you probably need this as much as I do,” Aziraphale says as he reaches out.

Crowley puts up a hand and shakes his head.

“Wish I could, but I can’t. It’s, uh, it’s a pretty strict diet.”

Aziraphale considers him for a moment, the warmth of the wine is already creeping up his cheeks but he’s thinking clearly enough to connect the dots in his mind.

“But you were drunk when you got here?” he asks, confused.

“I’m still drunk now,” Crowley giggles, “the drunken vampire.”

“Oh goodness,” Aziraphale says, scrunching his nose, “That sounds like a horribly pretentious bar or gastropub.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a ‘orribly pretentious me.”

Aziraphale snorts into the neck of the wine bottle, managing to regain his composure enough to take a long swallow.

“So, how are you drunk?” he asks at last.

Crowley takes a step away from the cabinet he’s leaning on, warily watching Aziraphale and slipping into one of the empty chairs. He gives the impression of being a naughty child waiting to be scolded, Aziraphale thinks, like he’s taking a liberty by sitting.

“Well, that’s a pretty big question. The short answer,” he says, pausing for effect, “is drunk cows.”

Shaking his head to clear it, Aziraphale is sure that he’s misheard.

“I’m sorry? Cows?” When Crowley answers with just a nod, Aziraphale sighs and settles himself in the other chair. “Alright, give me the long answer.”

“I worked out some time ago that if I drank the blood of a drunk person, I would feel the effects myself. When I still drank from humans, I would often seek out people under the influence of drugs and alcohol as an escape.” Crowley shifts in his seat, looking guilty. “In 1981, I drank from someone who had just dropped a lot of LSD. He was a very bad man, but I didn’t realise that he was tripping until I was, uh, _mid-feed_ , as it were. I don’t know if I was unlucky or if it’s something in my physiology, but I did not have a good time. I came to my senses in an alleyway about 6 miles away, pinning a woman against a wall and scaring the shit out of her. Scared myself off live feeding completely with that little episode.” He slumps, folding in on himself as if he could disappear. “There’s a farm about two miles west of here that feeds its cows a red wine mash so, when I really want a little Dutch courage, I head over there and feed on the drunkest looking cow I can find.” Crowley shrugs, spreading his hands out.

“I… see,” Aziraphale says carefully.

He looks at the wine left in the bottle and decides that he’s probably had enough to cope with this conversation. Probably. Maybe. Well, he’ll just leave it within reach in case he changes his mind.

“You look like you have questions,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale almost laughs again. He has so many questions, he barely knows where to start. He’s also aware that, no matter how unorthodox, this is still a confession. His curiosity is not the driving force here.

“This is your session, my questions aren’t important.”

“No,” Crowley says with a sharp shake of his head, “Your questions, your opinions, that matters far more to me than anything else right now. Go ahead, ask. I’ll answer everything that I can.”

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale can feel the pleased smile that he’s giving, the ache in his cheeks tells him that it’s especially shameless. Crowley makes a little ‘go on’ gesture with his hand and settles back. “There’s a lot of vampire lore, but clearly it’s not all true. I’ve seen you in daylight and you’re currently _in_ a church, so what’s true?”

Crowley grins and holds up his hand to count items off on his fingers.

“Sunlight doesn’t hurt, I just don’t have any powers until it’s dark. Religious symbols burn but don’t kill, and that seems to be true for all religions. Flowing water isn’t a problem. Consecrated ground is the same as daylight, just removes our powers. Obviously, I can turn into a mess of bats. I don’t age, in fact I look younger than I did when I died. I’ve not personally tested it, but I’m pretty sure that a stake to the heart, being set on fire, or decapitated will kill me as surely as it would kill you, but anything non-lethal heals up in minutes. I’m stronger than any human, faster too. I can make people do what I want by suggestion, although I hate doing it. Garlic? Does nothing. And I don’t need to be invited into a home in order to enter, it’s just good manners. Um, what else?” he says, tapping his chin thoughtfully, “Oh, I have a reflection, it’s hard to look this good without one.” He gives a wink that’s obvious even behind his sunglasses.

Aziraphale can’t help but laugh then, clapping his hand over his mouth to try and hold it in. It’s all just so ridiculous. An hour ago, he would have dismissed the notion of vampires being anything more than an overused literary trope and yet, here he now is talking with one.

“Do you also, forgive me,” Aziraphale has to pause to catch his breath. “Do you also have a compulsion to count things?” He nods towards Crowley’s hands where he’s still ticking things off his fingers.

“No!” Crowley shoves his hands down the sides of the chair so quickly that Aziraphale loses himself in another fit of tipsy giggles.

“Oh my goodness, you _do_!”

“I like numbers, alright? They make sense even when nothing else does. It’s not a compulsion.” Crowley says, sounding distinctly sulky.

Aziraphale forces himself back to composure. He’s forgetting himself too easily, letting himself get distracted.

“I’m sorry, I was only teasing,” Aziraphale says once he’s calm again.

Crowley visibly relaxes, his shoulders sinking back from around his ears and a smile flickering over his mouth.

“I guess I should be grateful that you feel able to tease, most people would have just run away by now.”

For the first time since Crowley’s admission, Aziraphale reaches across the space between them and touches him. It’s just a gentle pat on the knee but from the way that Crowley stares at Aziraphale’s hand, he knows that it was the right thing to do.

“It’s not my place to judge you, and you’ve given me no reason to fear you. I won’t be running away from you.”

“Thank you,” Crowley says, sounding choked.

They sit in the silence for a few moments, Aziraphale giving Crowley time to process everything that’s been said so far.

“I need help,” Crowley says at last, “I came here because I need help and I don’t know who else to turn to.”

“I see no reason why your immortal soul should be any less forgivable than that of a man. I am more than willing to work with you on this, Crowley.” Aziraphale uses his most professional priest voice: calm, quiet, understanding. He can almost forget that he’s had about three quarters of a bottle of wine.

“No, not that, fuck _that_!” Crowley spits before calming himself again. “Sorry, I just can’t bring myself to care about the opinion of a God that would curse me like this. I need a different kind of help. I’m dying and I really don’t want to be.”

Startled by the venom in Crowley’s blasphemy, Aziraphale doesn’t immediately grasp the importance of what he’s said. It filters slowly into his fuzzy consciousness.

“Dying? How?”

“I’m slowly starving to death. It’s getting worse. I’m not normally this cold or pale, but I think I’m coming to the end soon.” Crowley looks defeated as he explains.

“But, the cows?” Aziraphale says, a little stupidly.

“Have you heard of rabbit starvation?” Crowley asks, continuing when Aziraphale shakes his head. “If a human eats only rabbit meat as their protein source, they can starve to death even while eating an otherwise balanced diet. It’s like there’s something missing in rabbit meat that humans need, so it can sustain them for a while, but not indefinitely. That’s how it is for me and animal blood. I can drink until I’m bloated, but it’s missing something I need.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale chews his bottom lip as he considers this. “And I suppose blood banks…?” He trails off, leaving the question hanging between them.

Crowley sticks his tongue out in disgust, his whole face scrunched up with it.

“Yuck, no. There was a while, before ‘79, where blood banks were an option, even if I felt bad about depleting stocks. But the anti-coagulant they use now makes me sick. I can’t process the blood at all.”

Aziraphale hums thoughtfully, working over the problem.

“Do you have to kill the person you feed from?” he asks eventually.

Even through the sunglasses, Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s exasperation. He’s clearly been thinking about his options for far longer than Aziraphale has. Whatever conclusion he’s reached has been through a lot of consideration.

“No, I don’t actually need very much. It’s just that I’m so tired of hurting people. I think I have a solution that will solve all of this.”

Leaning forward, Aziraphale rests his elbows on his knees and steeples his fingers in front of his lips.

“Go on,” he says.

“Transubstantiation,” Crowley says simply.

It’s not at all what Aziraphale was expecting Crowley to say and he’s sure that his face must give away some of his surprise before he remembers to get his expression under control.

“That seems like a very big risk,” Aziraphale says as calmly as he can manage. “Holy objects hurt you, the actual blood of Christ could well kill you. And that’s not taking into consideration the fact that the wine doesn’t physically change. Chemically, it’s still wine.”

Crowley dismisses this all with a wave of his hand, leaning back again.

“I know that, but when you bless it I can smell the difference. Whatever happens to it is real. I think my body will accept it as blood.”

“Is that why you’ve been coming to Mass?” Aziraphale tries not to sound hurt.

“It’s why I started coming, yes,” says Crowley, pressing his lips together into a tight line when he’s finished, as if to keep any other words from escaping.

“What if it kills you?” Aziraphale asks quietly. Despite everything he’s learnt tonight, Crowley is still the closest thing he’s had to a friend in a long time. He’s not ready to let go of that.

“I’m dying anyway, what does it matter?”

It’s as if the air has been knocked out of Aziraphale’s lungs. The reality that he doesn’t want to face is looming before him either way.

“I want to try, please,” Crowley says, breaking through Aziraphale’s panic. “If this kills me, then I’ll be going out on my own terms.”

“I- I can’t,” Aziraphale stutters, horrified.

“Please, there’s no one else I trust to do this. I need you, Aziraphale.”

He wants to ask for time to think, but how much time does Crowley have to give? So many possible scenarios run through Aziraphale’s head that he struggles to catch hold of any of them. All he can focus on is the image of Crowley kneeling to receive the Eucharist, and dissolving like that Nazi fellow in _The Last Crusade_. He can’t bear the thought. But the alternative seems to be watching Crowley die a slower, more painful death.

“Now?” Aziraphale asks at last, “Tonight?”

Crowley nods.

“Please.”

Not knowing what else to do, Aziraphale nods and rolls up his sleeves.

“All right; I don’t like this, but all right.”

He stands, wobbling slightly as he adjusts to just how much wine he’s had, and moves over to the safe behind his desk. His hands are shaking so much that he fumbles the code the first time and has to start again, eventually pulling out the communion chalice. It’s richly decorated and covered in crosses.

“Ah, perhaps not this vessel, then,” he says as he puts it back in the safe, hearing Crowley muffle a laugh behind him. “Sorry, habit I suppose.”

There’s a mug on his desk, holding a few pens and pencils. He tips the contents onto the leather blotter and wipes out the mug with his shirt tail. Feeling Crowley’s gaze on him, Aziraphale tries to conceal how much he’s shaking as he empties the remaining wine into the mug.

He’s not having doubts, exactly. It’s more that he’s having doubts about his lack of doubts. He’s sure that helping Crowley is the right thing to do. Offering this most sacred rite to a creature so often described as damned should surely be raising a few more questions for him. All he can find to worry about is whether this course will help or harm Crowley, whether he is hastening the demise of his friend.

Preparing wine for the Eucharist is not as simple as saying a prayer over the cup and calling it good. Aziraphale keeps expecting Crowley to become impatient as he prays and chants over the mug, but that moment doesn’t come. He stays sitting, respectful and quiet, as Aziraphale works.

Aziraphale asks for forgiveness of his sins so that he might be worthy of bestowing God’s blessing on the wine. He asks for guidance that his path is righteous, and begs pardon for the unorthodox manner of this Eucharist. Hearing Crowley take a deep breath as the last words of the blessing leave his lips, Aziraphale almost collapses with relief that the ritual has worked, that he’s not been abandoned by God or his faith or whatever it is that makes this work.

Glancing up at Crowley, he sees the tiny nod of confirmation and the open fear that’s written across his face. There’s half a mug of wine in Aziraphale’s hands- how much should he let Crowley have? How much might be too much? He lifts the mug to his own lips for the first taste.

As soon as the wine touches his tongue, Aziraphale is struck by an idea so obvious that he can’t believe he’s only just thought of it. There’s been a solution in front of them the whole time, something that won’t risk Crowley’s life. It isn’t going to make Crowley _happy_ , but at least he’ll be alive and able to express that unhappiness. Aziraphale finds that he’s actually quite calm as he considers the options around him, still sipping the wine to buy himself thinking time. He sees Crowley stand, the desk between them, as Aziraphale drains the mug.

“Hey,” Crowley says, confused.

There’s a solid clunk as Aziraphale puts the now empty mug on the desk.

“Sorry about that, I suddenly realised that I can’t play a part in your death.” Aziraphale picks up the empty wine bottle, holding it like a club with his fingers wrapped around the neck. He’s too drunk for sensible decisions so there’s nothing holding him back when he smashes the bottle against the edge of the desk. “Oops,” he giggles, broken glass scattering around him. Crowley begins to back away, confusion and fear obvious on his face. “You need blood, and I know where there’s plenty!”

“Come on, now,” Crowley’s hands are up in a display of surrender and defence, “there’s no need for any of this kind of thing.”

Aziraphale watches Crowley’s face as he brings the jagged edges of the bottle to his bare forearm and slices through his own skin. Confusion morphs into realisation and then shock before settling on fear.

“No! Damn it, Aziraphale, don’t do that!” Crowley backs himself up against the door as if he wants to melt through it and away into the night.

“It would be a pity to waste this, seeing as you’re right there and I’m just going to bleed one way or another.” Aziraphale tries to sound matter of fact as blood wells up through the shallow cuts and runs over his arm.

Snatching up the mug again, he manages to catch the first drips and then angles his arm so the flow forms a single stream into the mug. Crowley is still plastered against the door, the wideness of his eyes obvious even behind his sunglasses, and the way his mouth hangs open gives Aziraphale his first glimpse of Crowley’s lengthening fangs.

“Why?” Crowley asks, his palms flat against the door and his fingernails carving grooves in the wood.

“I told you,” Aziraphale said, starting to regret doing this whilst more than two steps away from a chair, “I couldn’t risk the life of my friend. Now, will you accept my help or am I bleeding into a mug for the fun of it?”

Crowley moves so quickly that Aziraphale can’t even parse it as movement. It’s almost as if he teleports from the door to Aziraphale’s side, his arm a welcome pressure around his waist. He allows himself to be led to a chair, sinking into it gratefully as Crowley lowers him. Cool fingers take the mug from his hand and he watches Crowley kneel by his feet.

“Are you sure?” Crowley asks, his voice as small as Aziraphale has ever heard it.

“Absolutely. I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Crowley says, looking away.

There’s a moment of stillness where Aziraphale genuinely fears that Crowley will refuse and leave him here. He’s about to speak again, or clear his throat, or do anything to disturb the uneasy silence, when Crowley’s mouth closes over Aziraphale’s wrist.

There’s no fresh pain, and the pain Aziraphale is experiencing is already dulled by too much alcohol. He feels Crowley’s tongue lapping along the cuts, the gentle draw as he swallows. Everywhere that Crowley touches is uncomfortably cold, his fingers are strong and hard in their grip of Aziraphale’s wrist, and the rasp of his tongue over the wounds makes Aziraphale flinch. Yet, as soon as Crowley releases him, Aziraphale misses the contact and craves its return.

A muted whimper claws its way out of his throat despite his best efforts to contain it, making Crowley look up sharply. He’s pushed his sunglasses up into his hair and left his eyes uncovered, making his concern seem almost comically overstated. Aziraphale is so used to reading his expressions around the sunglasses that he’s momentarily stunned.

The cuts in his arm have stopped bleeding- he notices in a removed sort of way- sticky-looking scabs covering each slice. Crowley sits back on his heels and looks into the mug he’s still holding; his tongue flicks out, like a snake scenting the air, making him look inhuman. Whatever indecision he’s battling with seems to resolve and he brings the mug to his lips, tipping it back and swallowing down the contents. Aziraphale can only watch the movements of Crowley’s throat, as hypnotised by him as ever.

“Please,” Crowley says after licking his lips clean, “promise me you’ll never do something that stupid again?”

Aziraphale smiles at him, feeling weak in his body and strong in his spirit.

“I’m afraid that really all depends on you, my dear,” he says, still smiling.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Hallowe'en!  
> Please enjoy some more bitey boys on this spookiest of days.
> 
> Updates will be slower from here on out. I started a new job on Monday and my writing time has been severely impacted by their requirement of my physical presence.

Drunk, weakened by blood loss, and more than a little shaken by the events of the evening, Aziraphale is in no fit state to get himself home. He tries to convince Crowley to leave him, saying that he can stretch out in a pew and sleep it off just fine, but Crowley refuses to leave him. Not wanting to risk the scandal of spending the entire night locked in the church with another man, Aziraphale eventually agrees to letting Crowley escort him home.

Before they leave, Crowley dashes about, cleaning up the mess of broken glass and the bloodied mug, until there’s no sign that anything out of the ordinary has occurred. Aziraphale tries to help but is repeatedly pressed back into his seat and scolded for moving.

He’s never seen Crowley so energetic before, bouncing around the place like a rubber ball. The thought that this is because of him, because of the action he took, warms him in a place that wine can’t reach. Aziraphale is certain that he took the right course of action, and he’s prepared to keep taking it if needs be.

“Come on then,” Crowley says at last, draping Aziraphale’s arm over his shoulders, “let’s get you home.”

Aziraphale almost laughs as Crowley begins to try to help him stand. He can’t imagine a universe where slender beanpole Crowley could realistically bear the weight of soft, old Aziraphale on his shoulders. And yet, Crowley easily heaves Aziraphale to his feet and bears much of his weight as they head for the door.

“Right,” Aziraphale says under his breath, “supernatural strength.”

“Preternatural, I think,” Crowley says through a laugh. “Or maybe it is supernatural? I forget.”

Aziraphale ponders this as they cross the churchyard, having securely locked the building. He’s formulating a slurred sort of answer when Crowley stops him by a dark car.

“Alright, in you get.” Crowley opens the passenger door and Aziraphale knows that he must be drunk because the door opens backwards and the car looks like it’s travelled in time.

“It’s not far,” he begins to object, “I can walk!”

“No walking for you, Father,” Crowley says firmly, “now get in nicely, please.”

There’s a hint of threat under the request, an unspoken promise to get Aziraphale in the car one way or another. He decides not to test the strength of that threat and folds himself into the car, rather clumsily but without completely losing his balance.

“One owner from new,” Aziraphale says as soon as Crowley is in the driving seat, putting puzzle pieces together, “you weren’t joking at all, were you?”

Crowley grins wolfishly. “Not even a little bit.”

The drive to Aziraphale’s house is short, swift, and knocks about twenty years off Aziraphale’s life expectancy. Crowley drives as though traffic laws are a suggestion, and other motorists are an inconvenience he doesn’t care for.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale says once the car has stopped and he’s got his breath back, “You need to recall that only one of us is immortal!”

“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” Crowley says and, despite everything, Aziraphale believes him.

Having now added adrenaline to the mix of his body chemistry, Aziraphale’s progress to his front door is wobbly at best. He again relents in the face of Crowley’s insistence and accepts help getting inside and upstairs. Whilst he’s in the bathroom, cleaning his arm and wrapping it in a sterile bandage for protection, Crowley rattles about in the kitchen. Aziraphale comes out of the bathroom to find Crowley at the top of the stairs, holding out a plate.

“Did you make me a sandwich?” Aziraphale asks, touched by the gesture.

“Yes, shut up, you just need to regain your strength. It’s nothing.” Crowley jabs the plate towards him as he speaks, urging Aziraphale to take it.

“Well, thank you. I’m very grateful.”

He takes the plate into his bedroom and sits on the end of his bed to eat. Crowley follows him to the doorway, hovering nervously.

“Do you want me to go?” he asks at last.

Aziraphale looks up from his sandwich and feels his face soften as he takes in Crowley’s anxious fidgeting and worried expression.

“Of course not, you’re welcome here as my friend,” he says firmly. “You may leave if you wish, I daresay you’ve better things to be doing than playing nursemaid with me.”

“Not really, no,” Crowley admits, “certainly nothing I’d rather be doing.”

That surprises Aziraphale out of eating. He swallows a lump of bread and cheese, almost choking on it, and sets the plate down beside him.

“Did you not get enough?” Aziraphale asks, making to remove his bandage.

Again, Crowley is across the room faster than Aziraphale can think, his hands closing around Aziraphale’s forearm.

“I got plenty, don’t worry about that.” Crowley drops to his haunches so he can look up at Aziraphale. “It’s you that I’m worried about, that I need to look after. You did a very stupid thing.”

“Helped though, didn’t it?” Aziraphale can’t help being just a little smug.

Crowley sags, dropping his forehead onto Aziraphale’s knee.

“Yes, it helped. That doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.”

Aziraphale allows himself a pleased smile and a little wiggle of happiness. He can deal with Crowley’s displeasure far easier than Crowley’s death. Feeling bold, he reaches out to stroke the short hair on the side of Crowley’s head. There’s a subtle increase in pressure as Crowley leans into the touch and Aziraphale’s heart pounds hopefully in his chest.

“I should probably get some rest,” he says after a long silence. Crowley jerks away from his touch as if startled. “You don’t need to leave, but I can’t imagine you’ll want to stay while I sleep.”

Baring his teeth in a mockery of a smile, Crowley pushes himself back to his feet.

“Finish your sandwich first,” he says before spinning on his heel and stalking out of the room.

As he does as he’s told, finishing his cheese sandwich, Aziraphale can hear Crowley moving about the house like a small whirlwind. He’s too quick and frantic to be quiet, it’s entirely at odds with the silent grace that Aziraphale has seen him display so frequently.

Crowley appears in the doorway again just as Aziraphale is setting the empty plate on his dresser. He hands over a glass of water and a packet of paracetamol with a sort of impatient huff. As soon as Aziraphale takes them from him, Crowley takes the empty plate and disappears again.

It amuses Aziraphale to see Crowley so out of sorts. He’s taking care of Aziraphale in all the ways that matter but he seems to be almost angry with himself about it. It’s a bit like seeing a tiny, fluffy kitten puff itself up for a fight with a shoelace: hopelessly endearing and endlessly entertaining. Aziraphale has to remind himself that Crowley has the capacity to be a lot more threatening than a kitten, though. He can’t bring himself to be scared, not with the way Crowley is fussing over him, but he supposes that he should at least try to bear the facts in mind.

He manages to change into his pyjamas before Crowley returns, although it might just be that Crowley doesn’t return until he’s sure that Aziraphale has finished changing.

“How are you feeling?” Crowley asks, “Do you need anything else?”

He’s at the foot of the bed, rocking on his heels with his fingers jammed into the pockets of his jeans. He’s so full of nervous energy that he’s almost blurred at the edges.

“No, no, I’m quite alright now, thank you.” Aziraphale folds back the duvet and sits on the edge of the bed before pinning Crowley with a searching gaze. “This protectiveness, is it a vampire thing?”

Crowley sputters and shrugs, flapping his elbows in a sort of pointless emphasis.

“Uh, what? I mean- um- I don’t know what-” he trails off to wave his hands wildly as if that answers Aziraphale’s question.

“Well, I just mean that you’ve taken me home, made me food, taken care of me,” Aziraphale explains, “I merely wondered if this was some sort of vampire compulsion, perhaps a bond of shared blood or preserving a food source.” He tries to keep his voice level and calm so as not to upset Crowley but it appears to be a futile exercise.

“ _ Preserving a food source? _ ” Crowley hisses, stalking about the room, “Is that what you think of me? That I’m some monster who could only show kindness as a cover for my own self-serving nature?”

“Oh dear, no,” Aziraphale begins to stand, regretting his words immensely. “I’m sorry, that was a terrible thing for me to say, especially after you’ve been so attentive.”

He catches Crowley by the shoulders, sliding his hands down until he is holding Crowley by the arms, just above his elbows. The contact seems to kick Crowley out of whatever spiral he’d been experiencing. With the wind knocked out of his sails, he stills and stares at Aziraphale’s face.

“I don’t understand you at all,” he says in a near whisper.

Aziraphale gives his arms a little squeeze and smiles.

“All I really meant to say was thank you, you’ve been very kind.”

Crowley grimaces as though he’s been wounded.

“You shouldn’t thank me, this is just the least I could do after what you’ve done for me tonight.”

Aziraphale allows himself to be steered back to bed, although Crowley does stop short of actually tucking him in.

“Will I see you on Sunday?” he asks, making no effort to disguise the hope in his voice.

“Oh, definitely,” Crowley says softly. “Probably before as well, if you like.”

“I would like that,” Aziraphale says, snuggling into his bed. He’s exhausted now, barely aware of when Crowley turns out the light. He’s asleep before he hears Crowley leave the house.

* * *

When he wakes, Aziraphale feels a little delicate. His head throbs if he moves too quickly and even the meagre light filtering in through his curtains feels like needles in his eyes. What surprises him is that, when he finally convinces himself to try being upright, most of the discomfort melts away. His head is still a bit sore and his neck is stiff, but all other traces of the hangover he should have earned are missing.

He stretches and heads for the bathroom, already picking at the tape holding his bandage closed. He’s dreading having to explain the wounds to people, hoping that he can at least remember to keep his sleeves rolled down most of the time. With the shower running, letting the water heat up, Aziraphale begins removing the dressing in earnest.

What had been three jagged cuts are now faint silvery lines, neatly healed scars that have skipped the vivid pink stage completely. He strokes them gently, curiosity welling up in his chest. There’s so much that he doesn’t know, so much that confuses and excites him about this new world he’s been given a glimpse into. As he climbs into the shower, still staring at the scars, Aziraphale hopes that Crowley will be willing to answer his questions. Obviously, he’ll have to keep a tight leash on his thoughts, wording his questions carefully so as not to offend.

Still damp and wrapped in a towel, Aziraphale leaves the bathroom only to see Crowley standing at the bottom of the stairs. He squeaks in surprise and barely manages to avoid dropping his towel.

“Crowley! Good heavens, you gave me a fright!” The hand not clutching the towel lands on Aziraphale’s chest like he’s a scandalised matron, reaching for her pearls.

“Sorry!” Crowley starts up the stairs and then pauses, clearly reconsidering his reaction. “I just wanted to see how you were.”

“How did you get in?” Aziraphale asks, dutifully ignoring the way that Crowley’s concern makes his heart sing.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Crowley looks away sheepishly.

“I didn’t leave,” he says, glancing up at Aziraphale and then away again. “You said I didn’t have to, so I thought it would be alright if I just, you know, entertained myself downstairs.”

The last wisps of concern melt away and Aziraphale smiles warmly at him until he looks back up.

“Of course it’s alright, I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.” Crowley’s answering grin is relieved and toothy. Encouraged, Aziraphale continues: “I’m glad you’re here actually. Let me just get dressed and then we can have a chat, if that’s alright?”

Crowley nods and retreats back downstairs, mumbling something about maybe putting the kettle on if Aziraphale would like that.

By the time Aziraphale makes it down to the kitchen, wearing a fresh shirt and trousers, Crowley has boiled the kettle and made a mug of tea. The milk is on the side, ready to be added.

“I didn’t know how you take it,” Crowley explains sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

Aziraphale offers a smile and pours a splash of milk into the tea before opening the fridge to put the milk back. He sits at the kitchen table and gestures for Crowley to join him, trying to exude a feeling of calm and welcome. Crowley seems skittish and unsure this morning, far more than he had the night before and Aziraphale can’t risk him bolting before they have a chance to talk.

“How are you feeling this morning?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley scrunches his nose in confusion before answering.

“I’m fine, great, even. I should be asking you that.”

Aziraphale waves the objection away with a hand and a smile.

“I’m feeling physically fine, no complaints. My head was a little tender when I first woke up but that’s all cleared now.” He begins to raise his sleeve to show his scars. “Look, I barely even have marks from last night!”

Crowley looks away and covers Aziraphale’s arm with his hand. For once, his fingers feel warm to the touch and Aziraphale doesn’t feel the impulse to pull away.

“Please, I don’t want to remember you hurting yourself for me,” says Crowley.

“Alright, it’s OK,” Aziraphale says as he slides his arm out from under Crowley’s hand and pulls his sleeve back down. “The point is that I feel perfectly fine. No lingering ill effects, nothing to worry yourself over.”

Crowley looks dubious, even with his sunglasses in place. His mouth twists as if he’s about to speak but thinks better of it, merely sighing instead.

“OK, good. Just- I don’t want you doing anything like that again. There’s no need, really.” Crowley sounds wretched. Aziraphale feels a little bad for smiling.

“I rather think that there is,” he says, calmly.

Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up over the rims of his sunglasses and his hands clench into fists on the table.

“What do you mean?”

Letting the mood settle for a moment, Aziraphale takes a sip of his tea and looks around the kitchen, noting that Crowley has washed his dishes and tidied up during the night. It’s a comforting thought, that Crowley felt able to do these little things.

“I mean that I don’t intend for you to starve, and I don’t intend to possibly hasten your demise by giving you communion wine.” Crowley begins to shake his head, already trying to turn down what Aziraphale is offering. “I presume that the fangs I saw last night are more than just decorative? The whole process might be easier if you are willing to bite me.”

A sound escapes Crowley’s mouth that might have been a laugh, a sob, or a moan. In the absence of certainty, Aziraphale merely waits for Crowley to gather his wits and respond with words.

Most of the tea is gone before Crowley manages to find his tongue.

“You can’t- I mean, I won’t- Aziraphale, you don’t understand what you’re saying,” he says at last.

“So enlighten me, change my mind.”

Crowley manages a rueful smile at that, it’s so like their meandering conversations after Mass on Sundays- which is exactly what Aziraphale hoped to invoke: a reminder that they are friends beyond whatever else has happened.

“You don’t want to bind yourself to a monster for the rest of your life, I know you don’t. And I am a monster, don’t let yourself forget that. I have hurt people, killed people, for no reason other than I could and I knew no better.”

“Do you regret those actions?” Aziraphale asks.

“Deeply,” says Crowley.

“And are you likely to hurt people in the future? You were nearly starved before, did you feel like you were losing control?”

“No! I wouldn’t ever!” Crowley seems offended by the question.

“Then I don’t think you can call yourself a monster,” says Aziraphale with a shrug. “You said yourself that you didn’t know any better; do you judge the frightened dog for biting? Or the hungry child for crying?”

“That’s different,” Crowley says stubbornly.

Aziraphale leans back in his chair, letting Crowley think for a moment. He watches as Crowley’s face softens from indignant annoyance to quiet realisation.

“I think, if I may be so bold, that this vampirism of yours is like a disease. When you were newly infected, you were confused and unable to exert control over the base instincts it drove in you. It took time for you to gain that control, to learn how to manage the urges, or symptoms, if you prefer.” He speaks in a level tone, controlling his body language as much as possible to keep Crowley listening to him rather than falling into the spiral of self-loathing that he was teetering on. “I think that you have made mistakes that had unfortunate consequences, and that your morals were warped by the disease. There is nothing that you have told me that makes me think any less of you. On the contrary, I admire you all the more for fighting your way out of a mindset designed only to aid your survival.”

“That’s such a priest answer,” Crowley scoffs, but his voice is soft and his bottom lip trembles for a moment.

“You came to a priest, I don’t know what else you expected!” Aziraphale says brightly. “Was that your only concern?”

Pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, Crowley rubs his eyes, keeping them closed while they are uncovered.

“Far from it,” he says once the glasses are back in place. “I need you to understand that I know very little about my  _ condition _ ,” his tone is part mockery and part scorn, but Aziraphale suspects that he’s never thought of it in these terms before and is still adjusting. “Whoever infected me, they didn’t stick around. I’ve met enough others like me to know that we exist, but almost everything I know, I’ve learned myself. There could be risks I don’t know about, side effects or whatever. I couldn’t guarantee your safety.”

Aziraphale nods, chewing his bottom lip thoughtfully. He recognises that this is an important factor to Crowley and that any attempt to minimise it will cause him to withdraw. His time as a priest has made him excellent at reading people and, he hopes, reacting appropriately.

“Yes, I can see how that would be a worry. Any plan that we make will have to take that into account.” Aziraphale tries to be businesslike in his approach to the future, hoping that Crowley will adopt a pragmatic approach with him.

“Plan? What sort of plan?” He sounds suspicious, which is not a great sign.

“That really remains to be seen, I don’t know enough yet to say what it might look like, but I suppose it would be a plan for keeping you fed, if we can. I have some questions about that, if you’ll indulge me?”

Crowley’s mouth is a thin line, lips pressed together in displeasure at the direction Aziraphale is taking.

“Why?” he asks after an uncomfortable pause. “Why would you do this?” It’s almost plaintive in tone, asking for reassurance; an acceptance that he clearly doesn’t believe he deserves. There’s a trace of hope, Aziraphale thinks, just at the edges, as though Crowley has been kicked so many times that he’s afraid but he hasn’t completely given up.

“Because you’re my friend, and I care about you.”

Laughing bitterly, Crowley leans forward to rest his elbow on the table and his chin on his fist.

“Friends with a vampire,” Crowley says in a tone that Aziraphale suspects is supposed to be intimidating, “what sort of priest does that make you?”

“The good sort, I hope.” Aziraphale’s answer is out of his mouth immediately. He has no doubts about his faith or worthiness to serve God and, judging by the way Crowley’s eyes widen behind his dark lenses, it’s not the answer he was expecting.

“Alright,” says Crowley, “let’s plan.” And so they do.

Despite Crowley pointing out that he had gone literal decades without human blood, the difference in his health and comfort after just a few mouthfuls is so stark that Aziraphale refuses to entertain the idea of Crowley feeding on cattle any more. After fetching a notepad and pen, Aziraphale scribbles down his thoughts as they talk, just to keep them in some kind of order. He asks how often Crowley feeds, how much it takes to sustain him, and if it had been different when he had been feeding on humans. The questions clearly make Crowley uncomfortable, but he answers them all the same. They do agree that it makes no sense to prioritise Crowley’s health above Aziraphale’s, although Aziraphale has to point out that a brief headache once a month hardly merits letting Crowley starve.

Two more mugs of tea, a plate of toast, and a rather dramatic vampiric tantrum later, they have something of an arrangement in place, subject to review, of course.

“Thank you for this,” Crowley says once they’ve hammered out the details. “You’re too good a soul, you know that?”

Aziraphale shushes him with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“You do talk some nonsense; this is what friends are for.”

Crowley mutters something under his breath, looking away as his cheeks tinge pink. Whatever he’s saying is too quiet for Aziraphale to hear, but the blush is so disarmingly pretty that Aziraphale can’t bring himself to care.

With no pressing business to attend to that morning, Aziraphale allows himself the time to enjoy Crowley’s company. Once the stress of their earlier conversation has dissipated, they fall back into the easy chatter that has characterised their weekly coffee dates, with the marked difference that Crowley is no longer holding himself back.

Aziraphale is watching him gesticulate his way through a rant about light pollution, appreciating how animated and passionate he is, when he realises just how close he is to being in real trouble. It hadn’t been a problem when he had simply found Crowley attractive. Even as a priest he’s still a human man with eyes and urges; appreciating beauty is not a sin. The things he finds himself wanting to do with Crowley, however, certainly come close to being an undeniable breach of his holy vows.

Faith is not faith unless it is tested and he reminds himself of this as he watches Crowley’s graceful hands dance through the air. Temptation and the resisting of it are core pillars of the church that Aziraphale has pledged himself to, he can and will be strong. Besides, Crowley wasn’t likely to want anything like that with him. It was a non-issue on that front. Beautiful men don’t fall for stuffy priests, no matter how queer they might be.

He hears something of a question in Crowley’s tone and snaps himself out of his rather depressing train of thought.

“Hmm?” he manages, mentally kicking himself for not paying attention.

“Boring you, am I?” Crowley laughs at Aziraphale’s immediate rejection of that idea. “I was just saying that I would have loved to show you the night sky like it used to be- so many stars, you’d love it.”

Swallowing thickly, Aziraphale pushes down the mass of inconvenient emotions that threaten to choke him.

“That sounds wonderful,” he says, refusing to analyse anything about what Crowley has said. The dazzling smile he gets is already dangerous enough.

* * *

True to his word, Crowley is back in his customary pew on Sunday morning.

After bidding him goodbye on Thursday, Aziraphale had worried and fretted that perhaps he’d seen Crowley for the last time, that perhaps his agreement to their arrangement had all been for show and Crowley would just disappear off without a trace, leaving Aziraphale to wonder and worry about what had become of him. The sight of his black-clad slouch warmed Aziraphale in a way that was definitely about more than just bringing a lost sheep back into the flock.

He watches Crowley slip out during the Eucharist, barely catching himself from returning the little wave that Crowley gives him as their eyes meet. It wouldn’t do to fuel the ravenous appetite of the gossips in his congregation.

He knows that Crowley will be waiting for him outside when he’s finished tidying up and, just like it has for the past several weeks, the knowledge puts a spring in his step as he folds linens, turns out lights, and changes out of his vestments. The ladies who help set the church to rights after Mass exchange meaningful glances when they think Aziraphale isn’t looking but he’s in too good a mood to mind.

“Are you not cold, waiting out here for me?” asks Aziraphale as he locks the church door.

Crowley shrugs without taking his hands from his pockets.

“I’m used to being cold,” he says dismissively, “it’s more weird for me to feel warm these days.”

“That’s going to change, isn’t it?” Aziraphale asks as they start off towards their usual cafe.

Crowley looks at him out of the side of one eye, his red pupil just visible around the edge of his sunglasses.

“I suppose it is,” he says quietly.

They order their usual drinks and sit at the most secluded table available; Aziraphale has more questions and they aren’t the sort of thing that either of them want to be overheard.

“You don’t have to keep ordering coffee if you don’t want to,” Aziraphale says as soon as their drinks have been delivered to the table.

Crowley takes a deep breath of the coffee steam and smiles.

“I know, I still like it. You don’t need to worry about me.”

And that’s when Aziraphale realises how daft he’s being. Crowley is almost 190 years old and has lived most of that time in hiding, he doesn’t need a babysitter or guardian. He needs a friend.

“Sorry, bad habit as a priest, really. Always worrying about those around me,” Aziraphale admits, “and you do look a fair bit younger than me, it’s easy to forget.”

Crowley laughs freely, infectious with his joy in a way that Aziraphale hasn’t seen before. He can’t help smiling in return.

“Yes, that’s the first  _ gift _ of vampirism.” Crowley’s tone is sarcastic but playful, making his feelings clear without letting Aziraphale worry that he’s overstepped. “It’s a regenerative disease; my wounds rapidly heal, I do not age, and I look even younger than I did when I died.”

“Well, lucky you,” Aziraphale says teasingly.

Making a face that’s clearly meant to be a grimace but contains just a little too much humour to hit the mark, Crowley presses the heel of his hand against his sternum, rubbing through the layers of his clothing. Aziraphale gets the impression that Crowley isn’t aware that he’s done it.

“How are you feeling?” Crowley asks after a few moments of silence.

“Oh, fine! If I didn’t know better, and I don’t, I’d say that I actually feel stronger and healthier than I have in some time.” Aziraphale watches Crowley’s reaction as he takes a sip of his cocoa.

His lips press into a thin line as if news of Aziraphale’s good health is displeasing.

“There’s going to be no putting you off this arrangement, is there?”

Aziraphale shakes his head firmly. “Not at present, no.”

He desperately wants this part to be over, to be able to move on from the negotiation and reassurance and get down to the business of simply being friends, but Crowley appears to need it still. Aziraphale finds that he doesn’t have the heart to refuse him.

Crowley leans back in his chair, putting distance between them in a way that makes Aziraphale want to shuffle closer.

“Fine, fine,” he says, sounding defeated, “I know you’ve still got about a million questions, I’ll do my best to answer them.”

Aziraphale beams at him and is gratified to see the recent frostiness melt a little. It seems that there is little in the world as changeable as Crowley’s moods. He knows that his first question is going to thrust the conversation to one side or the other, but there’s nothing he wants to know as much as he wants this.

“Would you tell me about Jonathan?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love all comments. I'm not super able to respond to them at the moment, but please know that I see them and they cheer me endlessly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO! I'm still here. Stories are not abandoned. Updates will happen as and when I'm able to get out the words and I hope you'll stick around for the chapters to come.
> 
>  ~~This chapter is about halfway beta'd because I'm an impatient child and I require validation more than oxygen. All mistakes are mine!~~  
>  Chapter is now fully beta'd with my deepest thanks. All mistakes are still my own, though.
> 
> There is a BEAUTIFUL illustration by the extremely talented Cassieoh at the end. She's been teasing this for a while and I'm so honoured to be able to include it in the story!

For the first time in well over a year, Aziraphale skips dinner at the care home. With Crowley teasing him for dereliction of duty, he calls the home and expresses his regrets from the landline in his hallway. The conversation he’s fallen into with Crowley is simply too compelling to leave now and, well, doesn’t Aziraphale deserve a little indulgence every now and then? He’s asking these questions of his own conscience despite having already made the decision.

“Look at how I’m leading you astray already, Father!” Crowley calls from the living room, cackling horribly, “I’m a terrible influence.”

Swatting Crowley on the shoulder as he passes, Aziraphale returns to his armchair and wriggles himself back to comfort.

“So, you were telling me about the night the Titanic sank?” he prompts, nudging Crowley back onto topic.

“Oh, yeah! That was a wild night. I had been in New York for a little while and decided it was time to travel back to the Old World so I booked passage on the  _ Carpathia,  _ thinking that I could entertain myself in Europe for a while.” Crowley settles into his story, sprawling further across Aziraphale’s sofa and gesturing lazily with one hand.

Just like everything that Crowley has told him that afternoon, the story is fantastic and deeply human. Crowley has a talent for narrative and excellent recall of events that occurred after his transformation. Aziraphale finds himself refusing to think of that moment as Crowley’s death, despite Crowley’s frequent reference to it as such.

Events from before that time are less clear in his memory, but not gone completely. With a faraway look on his face, he’d told Aziraphale about how he had met Jonathan when they were both young men and each found a sort of home in each other. Comfortably middle class, their relationship was something of an open secret but without the attached scandal that would have affected them in high society, or the easy target that poverty would have affixed to them. They had lived 15 good years together before Crowley’s destiny was changed.

As Aziraphale listened, he felt a great sense of peace. There could be no doubt that Crowley deeply regretted Jonathan’s fate, and blamed himself for it, but there was enough distance now that the grief had been processed as much as it could be. 

The emotional display of a few nights previous seems to have been a combination of too much alcohol and residual guilt, Aziraphale decides. The fact that he’s rather keen to see Crowley as moved on from grief and then, perhaps, available for a future romantic entanglement is quickly dismissed. Aziraphale is a Catholic priest with a vow of chastity and that’s not something he takes lightly. Still, there’s no harm in a little wishful thinking.

“So, seeing as I don’t actually  _ need  _ to sleep, I ended up giving my cabin to a group of women off the lifeboats and spent the rest of the journey helping in the kitchens until we got back to New York. We had no idea how big the news was until we were pulling into port and could see the crowds there to greet us.” Crowley chuckles, shaking his head at the memory. “I think that might be the first time I had my photograph taken, certainly the first time I was in the paper. I still have a copy somewhere.”

Aziraphale realises that he’s leaning forward in his seat, hanging on to Crowley’s every word with a decidedly dopey expression on his face. He collects himself as quickly as he can, hoping that Crowley doesn’t notice the sudden change.

“That’s quite the story! Remarkable of you, really.”

Crowley shrugs in a manner that Aziraphale is coming to recognise as mild discomfort in response to praise. He glances over and looks properly at Aziraphale for the first time since starting his story. A frown creases his brows.

“Are you alright?” he asks, pushing himself up to sitting.

The question takes Aziraphale by surprise, he’s not aware of anything in his demeanour that would give Crowley the impression that anything is wrong.

“Perfectly well, thank you. Why do you ask?”

Crowley frowns again, leaning forward from his seat on the sofa.

“You just looked sort of, I don’t know, glazed over,” Crowley says.

He slides to the floor and walks on his knees until he’s beside Aziraphale’s chair. Before Aziraphale can react, Crowley’s hands are on him, touching his cheek and forehead with cool fingers, then slipping one hand around the back of his neck and feeling under his collar.

“You’re quite warm,” Crowley continues, “are you sure you’re alright? You would tell me if you weren’t feeling well, wouldn’t you?”

They are so close together now, as close as Aziraphale can remember them being. The urge to open his arms is overwhelming, his whole body seems to vibrate with the desire to hold Crowley close to him. It’s only when Crowley licks his lips that Aziraphale realises that he’s been staring at his mouth and not answering the very sensible question.

“Yep,” he squeaks, pausing to clear his throat of the sudden tightness, “I’m fine, really, tickety boo. I would tell you if that weren’t the case.”

From this close, he can see right through Crowley’s sunglasses. The dark lenses disguise the unusual colour but the shape of them is as clear as day. There’s concern and worry written across Crowley’s face and it almost makes Aziraphale laugh.

He’s acting so smitten that Crowley has mistaken the reaction for sickness. Isn’t that a colossal joke, Aziraphale thinks, Crowley must not believe Aziraphale to be capable of attraction like this. What other explanation could there be for his strange behaviour after all?

“Tickety boo?” Crowley says at last, quietly, mockingly. Aziraphale nods emphatically.

Looking unconvinced, Crowley hums and rocks back onto his heels, increasing the distance between them again and letting Aziraphale breathe. He slithers back onto the sofa with his mouth in a thoughtful line whilst all Aziraphale can do is watch and imagine a world where he might be permitted to kiss that same mouth.

“Do you want to hear about when I met the Queen completely by accident?” Crowley says, offering a new, safe topic.

“Oh, yes!” says Aziraphale, smiling with genuine delight, “That sounds highly improbable.”

The brief tension between them trickles away as Crowley settles into his story, explaining how he had been out of the country for weeks only to return to town on the same day as a royal visit. It’s so easy to listen to him, Aziraphale finds that the whole scene is as vivid in his mind as if he had been standing beside Crowley. He can picture him, a bit worn and tired from travel, his boots hung around his neck ready for the cobbler to set to rights, suddenly faced with the diminutive Queen of England as she offered her hand.

“I reckon she thought I’d slept out on the streets to make sure I got to meet her!” Crowley says with a laugh.

Unable to help himself, Aziraphale joins the laughter and quickly loses himself to a fit of giggles at the mental image. Crowley is staring at him, deadly serious, when the laughter finally dies away.

“What’s wrong?” Aziraphale asks, thrown off-balance by Crowley’s sudden mood change.

“It’s not that funny a story,” Crowley says flatly, “You laughed far too much for a story that really doesn’t warrant it. I think I’m coercing or affecting you somehow.”

“What? No, don’t be daft,” Aziraphale shakes his head as he speaks, “it’s just a funny image.”

Crowley appears to be unconvinced and all the earlier unpleasant tension rushes back as though to fill a vacuum.

“When I talk, you get this unfocused, dreamy look about you. I thought I had a lid on it, that I could control this stupid power around you, but I’m just making it worse by lying to us both.” Crowley wrings his hands and glances towards the door as though he might bolt.

“I don’t think that’s what’s happening,” Aziraphale says carefully. “I don’t feel any different, just as clear and cognizant as I always do.” He has a suspicion about what’s happening but it’s far too exposing to admit it.

“Not fuzzy or confused at all?” Crowley asks, nakedly hopeful.

“Not at all.”

“But what if I’m influencing you into saying that! How would we even know?” Crowley sounds desperate and distraught.

There has to be something that Aziraphale can say to fix this, he can’t stand to see Crowley so upset.

“Why don’t you try to compel me into doing or saying something? Just one simple thing, and then we’ll know if it feels different.”

“No,” Crowley says firmly. “Out of the question. I won’t do that to you. Although,” he breaks off, looking thoughtful, “no, there has to be another way. Probably. I think.”

Aziraphale gives him a stern look.

“Just use your powers or whatever to make me go fetch the biscuits out of the kitchen. I shall sit here and try to resist the lure of the biscuits.” He grips the arms of his chair in a show of mock determination.

Crowley laughs somewhat sadly.

“Oh, that’s hardly a fair test. Your willpower against biscuits is already shockingly low!”

“Exactly, you’d hardly be making me do anything I didn’t want to do, but we’ll get a good idea of what I feel when you’re influencing me.”

Pulling his sunglasses off, Crowley glares at him with those eerie eyes.

“You know, for a Catholic priest, you’re far too scientific about these things,” Crowley grouses, “but fine, don’t blame me if you suddenly can’t stop eating biscuits.”

Aziraphale grins in victory and settles back in his armchair, waiting for Crowley to do whatever it is he needs to do.

For a minute, they sit in the same comfortable silence that they often lapse into during their Sunday chats, and nothing changes. Crowley rubs his eyes and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looking at Aziraphale more intensely. Soon, there are lines of effort and concentration marking Crowley’s face, making it look as though he’s focusing incredibly hard on Aziraphale’s face. For a brief instant, Aziraphale thinks that, actually, he might quite like a biscuit but it’s swiftly squashed.

“Really?” Crowley asks at last, “Nothing?”

“It’s not your most impressive parlour trick, is it?” Aziraphale says, a little teasingly.

“Shut up.” Crowley flops back into the sofa and folds his arms across his chest.

“Will you stop fretting about it now? It would appear that I’m quite immune.”

Crowley concedes the defeat with all the grace of an immortal being far more used to getting his way.

Laughing as kindly as is possible in the situation, Aziraphale attempts to soothe Crowley’s bruised ego and they spend the rest of the day chatting about Crowley’s unlikely brushes with history.

* * *

“Do you sleep?” Aziraphale asks during their next Sunday cafe chat.

Realising belatedly that his question has apparently come out of nowhere, he takes a slow sip of his cocoa and tries to give off an air of calm consideration.

Crowley is staring over at the young woman who had brought their drinks to the table. He doesn’t look away from her even as his mouth twitches into a smirk, indicating that he has at least heard Aziraphale’s question.

“Sometimes,” he says, “when I want to.”

“I suppose that means that you have a home?” Aziraphale works hard to keep his tone light, conversational.

“Mhm,” Crowley says, sliding his glasses down his nose just a fraction. Without warning, his smirk breaks into a full grin and he turns his full attention back to Aziraphale. “Sorry, what’s this about?”

“Oh, nothing. I suppose I’m just curious.” Aziraphale sips his cocoa again, hoping that he’s not being suspicious.

Across the table, Crowley goes through his pantomime of bringing the coffee mug to his lips and taking a deep breath. Aziraphale gets the impression that Crowley is trying to wait him out, letting the silence stretch until it’s unbearable and he reveals the scheme he’s working on. He settles back in his chair and smiles benignly, more than capable of tolerating a long silence.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” the waitress interrupts the fledgling battle of wills, standing beside their table and looking nervous, “I’ve brought you this.” She drops a neat pile of about £500 in mixed notes on the table. “It’s from the till.”

Crowley’s grin grows so wide that the top of his head looks to be at risk of falling clean off.

“You see this? Do you see what this is?” he asks, looking like a puppy having performed a trick.

Aziraphale frowns for a moment, trying to work out what’s happening in front of him, the waitress’s odd actions and Crowley’s glee. It clicks a second later, Crowley is showing off the power that had failed to manifest last week.

“This is your doing?” he hisses at Crowley before turning to the waitress. “Oh, dear girl, I think there’s some sort of misunderstanding.” Aziraphale takes her hand and presses the money back into it. Crowley snickers to himself. “I don’t think you meant to bring this over, best go put it back,” Aziraphale says quietly, looking about for the manager in case he needs to cover.

The young woman blinks, looks down at her hands and then back up at Crowley.

“Right, don’t know what I was thinking,” she says, shaking her head.

“Told you I could do it,” Crowley says, sounding smug. He looks up at the waitress and gives her an exaggerated wink from behind his sunglasses. “Thank you, that’ll be all.”

Clearly confused and disorientated, she walks away from the table with the cash in her hands, shaking her head lightly. Crowley watches her go for a moment before reclining in his chair and looking at Aziraphale expectantly.

“Was that really necessary? You could have caused her some real trouble!” Aziraphale is surprised at the strength of his own reaction, but the sentiment is true enough.

Immediately chastened, Crowley draws in on himself, his shoulders hunching up in defence.

“I wanted you to believe me, that’s all,” he says petulantly. “I wouldn’t have let anything bad happen, not really.”

Despite himself, Aziraphale softens and reaches across the table to pat Crowley’s hand.

“Of course I believe you, you silly creature. There was no need for you to prove yourself to me.”

As he pats Crowley’s hand, Aziraphale begins to feel uneasy. Something needles at his brain but he can’t quite work out the shape of it. Either way, Crowley relaxes at the touch and manages another smile.

“Oh, well, now there’s no doubt at all.” Crowley sinks lower into his coat with the faintest blush high on his cheeks and folds his arms over his chest. “What were you saying before?”

Aziraphale scrunches his nose and tries to remember what he’d been trying to winkle out of Crowley before they’d been cast so far off course.

“You were telling me about your sleeping habits,” Aziraphale says matter-of-factly.

“I don’t believe that I was, but nice try.” Crowley untucks his hand just long enough to give Aziraphale a cheeky thumbs up.

“You’re awful, Crowley, I don’t know why I let you take up so much of my time!” says Aziraphale, clearly teasing.

A shadow of doubt or fear or  _ something _ unpleasant crosses Crowley’s face, leaving him looking more pale than he has all week. He bites his bottom lip and worries at it, looking down at his coffee.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says, feeling like he must have hurt Crowley, “I’m sorry, I was only teasing, I hope you know that. I do truly enjoy the time we spend together.”

“Ha,” says Crowley, and it’s pointedly not a laugh, “you sweet on me, Father?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, chuckling to try and lighten the mood that has fallen over them both.

“You’re my friend and I care about you. I spend time with you because I enjoy it. I rather thought that was obvious from my actions and, of course, the multiple times I’ve told you that we’re friends.”

For a moment it feels so much like that first week that they had spoken, with Crowley closed off and aloof. In his chest, Aziraphale’s heart aches with the threat of increased distance, a return to how things had been all those weeks ago. He’d thought that they’d built a strong enough friendship to be able to handle mild disapproval and chiding but, clearly, Crowley is still expecting the axe to fall on their connection. Aziraphale makes a mental note to think over some of their other interactions when he’s alone, to try and work out more of Crowley’s insecurities.

“Where do you live, Crowley? When it gets late and you leave here or my home, where do you go?” Aziraphale drops all of his casual interest and asks the question he really wants answered.

Crowley’s head snaps up and Aziraphale can feel the weight of his gaze as he considers his answer.

“I have a place, a house, where I spend most of my time,” Crowley says slowly as if he’s waiting for a trap to spring. “When I sleep, I sleep there. It’s safe enough.”

Aziraphale hums and drinks the last of his cocoa, considering whether to push any further now. He settles for something of a middle ground between saying what he actually wants and dropping the topic completely.

“That’s good, I’m glad you have somewhere safe. Is it very far?”

“About 45 minutes by car, two hours by bat,” Crowley says seriously. Aziraphale doesn’t question his measurements, just nods and hums his understanding. “It’s slower by bat, but a shorter distance,” Crowley explains anyway.

“Yes, as the bat flies, I imagine.” Aziraphale nods again as if this was a perfectly normal thing to say.

Crowley snorts and rolls his eyes, making Aziraphale realise just how far he’s come in being able to read Crowley’s face behind the sunglasses.

“You’re ridiculous,” Crowley says, digging around in his pockets until he pulls out his gloves.

They leave the tea room a few minutes later, having wrapped Crowley back up against the cold. Aziraphale briefly thinks about skipping dinner at the care home again but he knows that’s a poor habit to get into, missing one week was bad enough. He’s about to ask Crowley if he’d like to meet later that evening, still reluctant to let their time together end, when Crowley knocks him with a friendly elbow, says goodbye and walks away to his car without a backwards glance.

Over the next two weeks, they still spend far more time together than Aziraphale would ever have considered proper before meeting Crowley. A routine forms without Aziraphale being conscious of it, until he realises that he is booking appointments around the times that he expects to see his friend.

The topic of his home is roundly ignored with Crowley deftly directing most of their conversations. Aziraphale takes the hint and lets the topic drop for now, reluctant to push Crowley into anything that might cause him discomfort. Indeed, Aziraphale is willing to go to great lengths to ensure Crowley’s comfort at all times. He keeps a mental list of things Crowley won’t talk about, rearranges the furniture in his living room so that Crowley doesn’t have to sit near any religious symbols, and starts keeping a small stash of tea and coffee blends for Crowley to nurse on their long evenings in.

The niggling worry continues to gnaw at him, always evading his attempts to catch the end of it and examine it in the light. Crowley appears to be fine, in good humour and rude health, but every time that their fingers brush, Aziraphale gets a feeling of wrongness in the pit of his belly.

* * *

It comes to a head almost exactly a month after the night that Aziraphale had first offered his blood. He isn’t sure how to broach the subject of Crowley’s next mealtime, even as the agreed date draws ever closer. Mercifully, or not, the issue resolves itself without either of them having to do anything as sensible as discussing it.

In a scene of almost incongruous domesticity, Sunday evening finds them watching a film in the living room of Aziraphale’s home. It’s something with a lot of car chases, explosions, and a relationship between the two leading men that seems a little more than platonic. Crowley is sprawled across the sofa in a position that defies skeletal integrity, an abandoned mug of lapsang souchong tea on the floor beside him. From his armchair, Aziraphale watches Crowley and the film in equal measure. He’s quite certain that his attraction is one-sided as, although Crowley is a shameless flirt, there’s been no suggestion of any desire or impropriety from him. Aziraphale has two decades of practice at ignoring his baser urges and is working on turning his hunger into mere aesthetic appreciation.

A particularly loud explosion makes Aziraphale jump, but Crowley howls in laughter.

“Tell me that’s a heterosexual reaction to thinking your work buddy has been blown up!” he laughs, gesturing towards the scene with a loosely elegant hand.

“I couldn’t and I shan’t, those two are definitely fucking.” Aziraphale delights in the subtle rise of Crowley’s eyebrows, the evidence of his surprise.

“Filthy mouth on you, Father,” Crowley says, shaking his head sadly. He shivers suddenly and obviously, curling in on himself a bit. “Couldn’t trouble you for a blanket or something, could I? I’m really feeling the cold tonight.”

Aziraphale stands at once, his mouth twisted with concern. He’s almost uncomfortably warm on account of the increased heating he’d put on for Crowley’s benefit, already down to his shirtsleeves and those rolled up to his elbows.

“My dear boy, are you quite alright?” Aziraphale asks as he opens the pouffe beside the armchair and pulls out a woollen blanket.

Crowley’s teeth are audibly chattering and he reaches for the blanket with a trembling hand, spurring Aziraphale to drape the blanket over him, tucking it around his legs.

“Thanks,” Crowley says, rather weakly.

Aziraphale stands over him, his arms crossed, and a stern look on his face.

“What’s going on, Crowley?”

Crowley opens his mouth to answer, glances up at Aziraphale’s face, and seems to have a change of heart. He relaxes into the sofa and pulls the blanket up to his chin.

“Withdrawal,” he says into the space by Aziraphale’s knees.

The pieces fall neatly into place and Aziraphale finally sees what he’s been worrying at for the past two weeks.

“You need to eat, don’t you?” he asks, crouching beside Crowley. Crowley nods and refuses to meet his gaze. “Well, why didn’t you just say so?”

Crowley mumbles something into the blanket and, at moments like this, it’s so easy for Aziraphale to forget what Crowley is. When he’s being stubborn and bashful and awkward, he couldn’t be further from the monster that he tries to project. Aziraphale’s heart fairly aches for him.

Picking up the remote, Aziraphale turns off the television and sits on his haunches beside Crowley’s head.

“You should have just said something,” he says in a softer voice, “you needn’t suffer.”

“Why not?” Crowley grumbles, “it’s my own stupid fault.” Aziraphale frowns, unable to see the connection that Crowley is making. “I pushed myself, trying to prove myself to you. Using my abilities during daylight with that girl in the tea rooms, it was like running a marathon.”

“That was two weeks ago, Crowley! Have you been suffering this way for all that time?” Aziraphale says, shocked and annoyed at himself for not realising sooner. “Come on, let’s get you put to rights. How do you want me?”

Crowley sits up so quickly that he almost headbutts Aziraphale in the nose. He looks like he wants to object but the tremors are evident throughout his body and Aziraphale is doing his best stern priest face, the one reserved for the lads who use the churchyard as a football pitch. The fight goes out of Crowley in a breath and his shoulders drop.

“Go, sit down and get comfy,” Crowley says, directing Aziraphale back to his armchair with a flap of his blanket. “I had wanted to do this all right, be more prepared, but I fucked that up.”

Aziraphale does as he is told, settling into his armchair whilst giving Crowley a reproachful look.

“You haven’t fucked up anything, you silly creature,” he says, leaning back into the cushions, “the important thing is getting you well again.”

Crowley slides from the sofa onto the floor and waddles over to Aziraphale on his knees, pausing only to drop his sunglasses on the coffee table. He looks like a grumpy little penguin with his black clothes and pale face, the cream blanket about his shoulders only makes the effect more adorable and Aziraphale has to fight a smile.

“You’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you?” Crowley asks as he reaches Aziraphale’s feet, “You’re going to use this as an excuse to mother me horribly and enforce your horribly thoughtful schedule.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Aziraphale says with enough sarcasm to sink a navy.

Crowley bares his teeth in a grimace that, despite his lengthening canines, rather lacks any bite. He knocks Aziraphale’s feet apart and reaches for his right hand.

“You’re still sure about this?” Crowley asks, his red eyes searching Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale nods and offers a reassuring smile. “Tell me to stop, or tap me, or do anything at all, and I’ll stop, all right?”

“I understand, Crowley, your concern is noted and appreciated.”

With a much softer expression, Crowley smiles back before turning his attention to Aziraphale’s wrist. His right side is pressed against the armchair and his forearms rest lightly on Aziraphale’s thigh. With deliberate slowness and care, he bends his head and places a kiss on the thin skin on the inside of Aziraphale’s wrist.

Crowley’s lips are cool and dry, the contact is so sweetly intimate that Aziraphale has to fight down the urge to squirm in his seat. He can only watch as Crowley’s eyes close and his mouth opens to reveal wickedly sharp teeth. Before he can form a clear thought, Crowley’s fangs sink into his skin and pain blooms up his arm.

He gasps involuntarily at the sharp heat that radiates from the dual points of pain in his arm and Crowley freezes, his body tense as he awaits Aziraphale’s signal to stop. The initial burst of pain dulls into a more tolerable discomfort and Aziraphale forces himself to relax.

“It’s all right,” he says softly, “go on.”

At that simple urging, Crowley’s mouth clamps onto Aziraphale’s skin and his teeth tear the punctures into wounds that bleed freely. Aziraphale can feel the heat of his blood as a contrast with the cool wetness of Crowley’s mouth and the slow caresses of his tongue as Crowley laps up the flow. Each swallow feels like it’s drawing on something deep in Aziraphale’s core, as though there’s a taut thread between Crowley’s throat and the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach.

It’s not pleasurable, not at all. It hurts and a feeling like icy fire is flowing up his arm, but it is  _ deeply  _ intimate and Aziraphale is powerless in the face of this connection. He leans forward and sinks his free hand into Crowley’s hair, cradling the back of his head. Again Crowley stills immediately, his tongue pressing against the sensitive skin of Aziraphale’s wrist. Before he can begin to pull away, Aziraphale makes a soft noise in his throat and strokes his fingers through Crowley’s hair, soothing and reassuring him as best he can. He doesn’t want Crowley to stop, not at all.

He can feel Crowley grow warmer as they share his lifeblood, an equilibrium that serves to remind Aziraphale of how much Crowley needs him and this small offering. His fingers stroke at the soft strands of hair at Crowley’s nape as he wonders at the power of the act they are sharing. If it is blasphemous, Aziraphale cannot see the reason. It’s a pure act of service for one who is suffering.

When Crowley finally pulls away, smoothing over Aziraphale’s wounds with one last lick, he looks up at Aziraphale with open adoration written across his face.

Aziraphale can think of very little that he wouldn’t do to have Crowley look at him that way again.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be honest, if you've seen that art before you had no idea about what it was really depicting, did you? Heheheh.
> 
> As previously stated, the rumours of my demise were unfounded. I'm just a dramatic bitch with more mental illness than is good for me. 
> 
> Replying to comments is difficult for me and I'm desperately sorry about that, but please know that I read and treasure them all. They are the fuel that keeps me going.


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